C’est la blog.

I will not be a war blogger. There are plenty enough of those. But I made a point of watching the President’s speech this evening, the first time I’ve watched him speak since September 20, 2001. I’m not fond of him or his administration or his party, but at times that’s irrelevant. Now is one of those times.

It seems to me that many of the people protesting this war aren’t actually protesting this war, in particular. To them, “Iraq” is less than a shape on a world map, since people are notoriously bad at geography. No, they are protesting the whole sorry history of warfare since 1914 at least, though I doubt that very many are acquainted with the particulars of that either.

Certainly I sympathize with that. But I can’t be against this war. To hear some tell it, we’re attacking a place as innocuous as New Zealand or Liechtenstein, instead of a loathsome, genocidal dictatorship that hates us.

Besides listening to a televised ultimatum, it wasn’t a bad day. I’m adjusting to my cast — walked several blocks on it, I did. And I wanted to walk, since Winter begrudged us another day of warmth. Rumor had it that it was 70 F at one point. But the end is in sight. The heat will be going back south again beginning tomorrow.

Busy day at the office. We’re almost done with the next issue of Real Estate Chicago magazine, but the catch is “almost.” I’m typing so furiously that my right hand aches. So does my right foot, since it’s bearing the brunt of walking. Hurts more than the broken foot.

Would that count as ironic? I thought of a new “high school definition” of irony today. The old one I learned long after high school, from an old friend who went to Vanderbilt with me (we’d long graduated from there, too): Irony is the firehouse burning down.

The new high school definition of irony: tripping over your cane. I haven’t done this yet, but had a few brushes with it, before I appreciated the solidity of my cane.